A Long Journey

ary sat on a wooden bench on the deck of an enormous ship as it chugged across the vast ocean, leaving India and heading towards England. Her back was straight and she stared silently up at the sky, holding Jemima in her arms. Nearby, a group of children were playing noisily on the deck, but Mary didn’t join in with them. It had been several weeks since she had woken up and found her home had been ransacked, but it felt like a lifetime ago.

No one had come to the house for two days until two English officers turned up. They had been astonished to find her there – dirty, thirsty, hungry – and had taken her to the hospital. She had asked them where her father and mother were, but they had just told her to be a good girl and not to worry. At the hospital, a nurse gave her something to eat and drink, and helped Mary bathe and change into clean clothes. Then Mary was seen by a doctor. Neither the nurse nor the doctor would answer her questions about her parents either.

As she waited in a small room, wondering when Daddy was going to come and take her home and what he would say when he found out that all the servants had vanished, she heard the two officers talking in a room next door.

‘This is a frightful mess,’ said one gravely. ‘Poor child. If only we had evacuated the family before the trouble broke out. The cholera epidemic couldn’t have come at a worse time for them.’

Mary pricked her ears. She knew that cholera was a disease that killed lots of people, but what did it have to do with her family?

‘The doctor tells me her mother was struck down with cholera very suddenly. Her father rushed her here in the night, but it was too late,’ the first officer continued.

Mary froze, foreboding running down her spine. Too late for what?

‘The mother died that night and then the father died the next morning.’

Mary’s heart started to pound so fast she thought it was going to burst out of her chest. Mother and Daddy … both dead? She drew in a sharp breath. No, they couldn’t be dead. They couldn’t be! But even as the thought formed she knew, with a horrible, crashing certainty, that it must be true. The officers wouldn’t make a mistake about something like that. A sob ripped up through her, half whimper, half choking cry.

There was the sound of feet and one of the officers looked in through the door. ‘Oh, Lord. She’s here.’ He cleared his throat awkwardly, clearly having no idea how to comfort a ten-year-old girl.

His companion joined him. ‘What in heaven’s name are we going to do with her? She can’t stay here,’ he said.

Mary looked up through her tears to see the first officer consulting his notes.

‘She has a widowed uncle in England,’ he said. ‘We’ll send her back on the boat with the other children.’

From then on, Mary was passed around like an unwanted parcel. On leaving the hospital, she was sent to stay with a clergyman called Mr Crawford who had a wife and five children of his own. She heard the adults around her saying it would be better for her to be with other children, but she didn’t understand why. She didn’t want to play with the Crawford children. They were younger than her and they wanted to know all about her parents and how they had died. She felt miserable and wouldn’t answer their questions. Finally, she lost her temper, ripping up a drawing that the youngest had done for her and screaming at them all to leave her alone. After that, they stayed away from her, watching her as if she was a strange, wild animal. Mary didn’t care. She didn’t feel like she would care about anything ever again.

She had heard the clergyman and his stout, well-meaning wife talking about her in whispers: ‘Poor child … Word has been sent to England … He’s her uncle by marriage, you know … He was married to her mother’s twin sister who died years ago … Such a tragedy, poor man … but he’s her only living relative … He’ll have to take her, whether he likes it or not …’

Finally, a telegram had arrived. ‘The ship that will take you to England leaves tomorrow,’ Mrs Crawford informed Mary. ‘Your uncle – Mr Craven – who was married to your Aunt Grace, has agreed to take you in. He lives in Yorkshire at a place called Misselthwaite Manor. You’re a lucky girl, Mary. Your uncle is a rich man.’

Mary swallowed. How could Mrs Crawford possibly say she was lucky? Her parents were dead and she was going to live with some old uncle in a horrible house in a strange country! Tears pricked her eyes, but she wouldn’t cry in front of the Crawfords – she wouldn’t!

Pressing her lips tightly together, she nodded and then walked up the stairs. Reaching her bedroom, she shut the door behind her and then threw herself down on the bed, sobbing into the pillow to muffle her bitter tears.

The ship that carried Mary from Bombay to England was crowded and noisy. There were many families on board, all returning to England because of the unrest in India. Mary had to eat with the other children and do what she was told. She hated it – the food was horrible and the other children were rough and loud. On the first day, she had pushed her plate of food away. ‘This is disgusting!’ she said.

A scruffy boy sitting next to her grabbed her plate and emptied the food on to his own plate.

Mary stared at him, outraged. ‘I didn’t say you could do that!’

‘You didn’t say I couldn’t,’ the boy replied. ‘If you aren’t going to eat it, I am.’

‘You don’t understand,’ Mary exclaimed. ‘I need better food than this. My parents are dead.’

He shrugged. ‘We’ve all lost, girl.’

Mary watched as he gobbled up her food. She didn’t like him much, but he was the only person who had spoken to her so far. ‘Would … would you like to hear a story?’ she asked tentatively.

He gave her a scornful look. ‘No, I’m not a child.’ He got up and moved away to sit by someone else, leaving Mary on her own. Since then, she had barely spoken a word to anyone.

Standing up, Mary now walked to the side of the ship. A railing ran round the deck and the deep blue ocean swelled below. She lifted up Jemima. Maybe she could tell her one of Ayah’s tales and escape into it, forgetting everything else. Telling stories had always been her way of coping when Mother didn’t want to see her or when Daddy was too busy to play.

‘I’ll tell you a story, Jemima,’ she said. ‘Just like I used to do at home. There once was a Lord of the Seas. His name was Varuna and he … and he …’

The words seemed to dry up in her head. She tried again. ‘Varuna was very powerful. He …’ She faltered. But it was no use. All Mary could think about was home.

‘I don’t have a home, do I, Jemima?’ she whispered. ‘I don’t belong anywhere or to anyone now.’

Mary felt a sudden stab of pain as she looked into Jemima’s blank face. Jemima was just a doll, not a friend. Only children played with dolls and children had to eat what they were given and keep quiet. Children were passed from place to place; children had to do what grown-ups wanted. She suddenly made up her mind.

‘I’m not a child,’ she said fiercely. ‘Not any more.’

She let Jemima go. As the doll hit the water far below, shock filled Mary. What had she just done? Jemima floated on the surface for a moment. She stared up at Mary one last time and then the waves dragged her under.

A lump swelled painfully in Mary’s throat, but she swallowed it back. No more tears, she told herself. She lifted her chin, her eyes defiant. She wasn’t going to cry again – not now, not ever.

Crossing her arms, she turned away from the railings, a lock snapping shut on her broken heart.